The long way home
by WhataBird
Summary: Lucien Grimaud survived and is now reevaluating his life. Meeting a woman from his past, he sets out on a journey on which he is confronted not only with himself, but with emotions he thought long buried. Slow burn.


The long way home

„Get rid of them!", he barked. A group of villagers looked at Grimaud – wide-eyed and petrified. Tired men with worn-out bodies, aged before their years. Women with rough hands and hard eyes. Children with no laughter left in them.

How he despised the lot of them. They were weak. Sad and pathetic and weak. He was glad he had escaped such a life. The life of being a farmer, always being at the mercy of weather and harvest. He had created his own destiny, his own path – never being at the mercy of anything. At least that's what he had liked to tell himself over the years... Irritated at having this thought pop into his head, Grimaud inwardly snarled. Needing to vent his frustration at somebody, he looked the villagers up and down, looked into their watery and meek eyes. "Peasants", he snorted. "You are no longer who you were – you are spoils of war now.", he shouted at them, his voice sounding crueler and more venomous with every word. "To be done with as I see fit!". He was in control and they were not. As it should be.

He turned to his men: " Get me someone who can cook and guard the rest of them. I'm not sure what I want to do with them as of yet." Grimaud turned his back on the prisoners and made his way up the the abandoned stronghold where he and his men had made camp.

XXX

He preferred to eat in solitude. As much as he liked to melt into the background and have an eye on people – dinner was the only time when he allowed himself a break from his constant vigilance. This room served this purpose well. Large enough to fit a grand wooden table, a fire burning in one corner, he could stretch out and relax for a minute. Sitting in the biggest, comfiest armchair he could find, he let his thoughts run free. This business with the Musketeers had been reckless. Reckless and pointless. Why did he spend so much time on a near-personal vendetta against them? He got so carried away, tempted by the riches and prestige Gaston's takeover had promised, he couldn't allow anyone to take that away from him. It had felt like arriving somehow… to become part of something larger than himself and his crude life. He longed for something like that, it dawned on him - he had never realized that until now. Until it had been nearly too late…

Maybe his lifestyle was catching up with him. Maybe he was getting old. Whatever it was, it was wise to catch his breath, to take a break from all the scheming and plotting and planning. Over the course of the following days, he would send men to pull out of ventures, he thought. Then he'd disband the whole lot loitering the stronghold right now, his men, the dirty peasants, everyone. His men could decide what to do with them, even though they'd probably let most of them go. Slaves were hard to sell as it were, and now, in this time of upheaval … near impossible. Who would spend money on a dirty peasant when they had enough mouths to feed themselves? Even the rich weren't reliable in times as these… But when had the rich ever been reliable, Grimaud though to himself bitterly. Too many times he had been ridiculed for being poor, double-crossed because the noblesse didn't take him seriously… He had shown them. A nasty smile ghosted over Grimaud's lips as memories passed by. He chuckled. Oh, he had shown them… He had made them respect him.

But right now, he just needed peace to sort his thoughts. His near-death experience in the sewers had made him reevaluate his life choices. Some choices had been forced on him, but some he had made himself and he was so very tired and yet so very restless for something else. Something new.

XXX

When his food was served, he barely looked up. It smelled good and warm and would fill his belly. That's all he wanted after today – a warm meal and a good night's sleep. After finishing his meal, he leaned back with a content sigh. A glass of vintage in his hand, watching the fire dance, he felt so comfortable like he hadn't felt in years. "Yes", he murmured softly and relished in his decision. This was a good decision, he was sure of it. It was time for something new, something different and event the thought of that made him buzz with excitement. Grimaud let out another warm sigh and smiled to himself.

After a while, the door quietly opened and the kitchen aid silently made her way into the room to collect his plate. Having already emptied his glass of wine, Grimaud turned to tell her to bring him some more. Yet, the moment his eyes locked on hers, he froze – and Lucien Grimaud rarely froze.

With wide eyes, unable to speak for the moment, his brain registered the familiarity of the features before him. The woman standing in front of him was someone he knew, or better – someone he had known, in another life. Yet he had known her so intimately, so closely that some part of him wasn't even surprised to see her. The other part of him however filled with rage and venom and most of all, hurt. After a split second, Grimaud could feel a familiar rage bubble under his skin, filling him whole, nearly bursting at the seams. His thoughts were racing how dare she intrude into his comfort zone how dare she stand in front of him here in front of the fire how dare she be alive and breathing and alive and alive and alive and not crumbled to dust while he had also lived and lived and ….

A low growl, barely human, sprang from his throat. "Get out." That was all he could manage, yet the woman didn't move. The audacity. With one swift movement, he smashed his plate onto the floor. "Are you deaf?", he roared, comforted by his anger, a feeling so substantial to his being. This one did the trick and the woman bolted from the room, leaving him alone again – but far from calm.


End file.
